November 19th 2021

Again, I’m looking through a bay window, | because the future marshals us with gestures. | Enough. Perhaps it is that every day | you wore your first uniform for school | towards the end of vast and massy chains, | at where something has just vanished from the sky. | If you wanna continue to look at the living | are you still watching? The screen goes blank to save | a newer blankness filling with almost exactly | the eye’s capacity for total vision unim- | Somewhere an ocean begins to sink | from windows. Was someone somewhere sighing? | What horizon might have closed the deal? | Autumn exploding on trees like muted rockets | where everybody’s song’s a different song? | With past moving oppositely, the future’s filling up, | guy, outside a window, looking in. | At evening, at an airport, at the join, | the land is tall. The light is tall. November’s full of memory, | remember? For example, remember when I said | we’re thinking of types of silence. | All afternoon the year begins expiring. | The days are growing gone, | on the chimneys as much as the sky, the blunt sky. | You’ll soon believe me absent. | For a little while now I’ve only been able to sleep. | All of our time is another time’s collapse. | Today, the trees the colours of Bonnard paintings | shaded the pond, another pond, another pond, | meeting then moving to sift across | those silent, newborn, ancient shores.

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